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svdgrl May 2014
I heard a woman singing in the car,
about being reborn as a peacock for Krishna
so that she could sit in beautiful penance for him.
While watching whizzing morning work trucks,
and beat-up corollas and motion blur,
I thought of you in the stillness of sleep.

If I were to be reborn I'd like to be a bird as well
so that I could provide the down in your pillow,
and be cushion to your carousel crown
But then I would be lonely when you go to work.

If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your sunglasses,
so that I could protect your squinting eyes,
and live by your lushest lashes.
But then you'd lock me away in a case, and I won't be able to see you.

If I were to be reborn, I'd be a bracelet made of magic beads,
so that I could promise health around your often pained wrists,
and fix the freedom in your fiery fingers.
But then you'll probably lose me, or unstring me accidentally with time.

If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your favorite puppy,
so that I could pacify your inner turmoils.
and be held by your human hands.
But then you'll possibly outlive me, and I wish to watch you grow.

If I were to be reborn, I'd be lonely, locked away, left, lost, and outlived-
so I'd rather stay in this life with all of my privileges
of providing, protecting, promising and pacifying
as your lucky lover.
thomas gabriel Jan 2012
A brightness bathed the night:
Spectral corollas flecked the slick,
Damp sea – shoals of languid light
Mourned in planetary shadow play.

Bloodless bronze effigy,
Son of Sirius, hastened earthward
From the jaw of an untamed brute:
Swathed in an amorphous, turbid

Cloth, he fell – stark as crimson
Amid the dull, wan air. A death
Most uncouth: lain now on a pillow
Of galling shell and abrasive flesh.

A rare trinket plucked for my memory.




©*Thomas Gabriel
I found a wonderfully rare (dead) owl whilst on a walk this week and i took one of his feathers so i could remember his beauty. This is his.
Onoma Feb 2017
Protectress...manna, Luna, vulvic-veil,

my heinous highness, take this kiss upon

your forehead and crown.

Tinctured lips, paired pilgrims of our alchemy...

surmounted mount in tantric trust, the perfect

fit for this Age.

We watched each other's will hatch in the palms

of our hands...forgetting to argue who came first.

The rightful bliss of essential ignorance, world

manifest under our noses--roused by smelling salts

from intermittent faints...Love, Love, Love!

You, dearest of whomsoever came forth from innumerable

bodies, to be half-turn to my half-turn...round our world

on its head.

Bar to bar none axes...one string guitars from pole to pole--

played ****** by our fingers.

Corollas of red droplets...the poppies are everywhere, the

child you bore me was me--forcing me to man abandonment.

Caught at the lip of a curb ramp, I hurl handfuls of folly

skyward...as pieces of absence continually settle time.

I apply you to my proportion...Vitruvian Man versed in

your space, circle squared dear--circle squared...the poppies

are everywhere.

Broken down to simplest things, I lay you down, I lay me

down...try both sides of the bed where neither is met.

Just as I cease to exist, I-ness nets a sense of being, bolting

upright as if hearing the world fall.

We who observed continuous excellency of soul, stood

juxtaposed in extemporaneous awe.

How could I expel you, how could you expel me...from

such a juxtaposition?

The "invisible worm" brings tidings of forever before it

destroys the flower...the poppies are everywhere.
irinia Jun 2015
"If the truth can't be found through love, wherever it might be, it doesn't interest me"*

incessantly still
discontinuous
I will fall without name
I will fall into the restlessness
of your thigh

I will build my home
in the gratitude
of your palms

I dreamed these words
instead of you
one night
like any night

I will let go
of counting the hours
the faces, the tears
white corollas
sudden transformations

I have seagulls in my mornings
I have words of you
and the shores of memories
there’s you crumbling in my place
passion’s hidden crimes

I shake out the night
from my hair
and you are still there
to teach me
why
Ronald Jones Aug 2016
surreal music audio with spooky, coarse voices, singly or together announcing: ''roses stiff as bark
gardenias stained brown
dahlias of sharpened spikes threatening needle marks
irises weeping sticky blue tears
camellias their corollas swollen in black slashed tones
african violets stodgy hunks of colorless kelp
lilies shriveled to mere paper cones
squinchy petals underfoot emitting a sodden bouquet
merriment slayed by some wrongdoing along the way
dare the clouds above assemble in grace?
the sun in tranquil splatter
bless another day?"
Jonathan Moya Mar 2020
The virus news carries me from room to room.
A Verdi aria breaks the solemn
chant of the rising death tolls in my brain
as Italians sing to the sick below,
voice to voice forming a single line of hope,
that filters down to the lonely windows,
my electric screen, all the world’s tablets.  
The music spreads over the mournful lulls,
penetrates through the hemagglutinin,
nucleoproteins singed by joyous noise.
The alarms of Corollas join the chorus,
even the rain ululates with applause.
The gift of every note dotes on the glass.
The ventilated sick duet with their eyes,
pale hands conducting the voices above.
The voices background the daily briefing,
the drone of Trump, and the doctors after him.
I switch to another song, more mellow-
Sitting on the Dock of the Bay, something
in the same tempo, in unison, that allows
my small cautious soul to match their big notes.
P Suess 1d
One warm summer evening, early,
Resting in the cosmos weary
To kip upon a pillowed disk
Within corollas white and blue
Enfolded in one satin petal
Clutching to its gold dust revenue

A bee, black and yellow, sleeping,
Swaying on cosmo's slender stem
Dreaming, gliding with wings abuzz
Dreaming of its flowers tended
Dreaming of many more to come
Dreaming of its royal ambered home
Now so far far away

P. Suess

— The End —